


Everything We Know About Them (Is Wrong)

by wittylittleknitter



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Behavior, Gen, It ties into the mind control somewhat, Mind Control, Platonic Soulmates, Platonic Soulmates gone HORRIBLY wrong, Well - Freeform, ish, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittylittleknitter/pseuds/wittylittleknitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in your village knows to never, ever, touch a live dragon. If you touch a dragon when its alive, it marks you, and if you get marked, you get taken.</p><p>And everybody knows what happens if you get taken.</p><p>Universe Alteration where human and dragon "bonding" goes horribly, horribly wrong. The dragons' desperate attempts to get help (by bonding with Vikings) only ends up bringing more workers into the Green Death's hive-like system, much to the horror of the Vikings left behind. </p><p>So what happens when Hiccup is taken?</p><p>Goes AU from the big chord change at the end of Forbidden Friendship, where Toothless boops Hiccup's hand with his face. Work in progress, chapters posted whenever I finish the chapter two ahead of that one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stars Walk Backward

**Author's Note:**

> Before we start:
> 
> I moved the start of Dragon Training to about mid-September, in the very brief transition from summer to winter. This doesn't actually affect much of the story, I just needed them to have a reason to be wearing gloves most (if not all) of the time.
> 
> I have NO IDEA how long this muse is going to stick around. This is the first thing over 800 words I've written in at least the last year, and since we've crossed that barrier four times over, from here on out I could lose it at any time.
> 
> This is a fill for this kink meme prompt: http://dragon-kink.dreamwidth.org/395.html?thread=53387
> 
> I've gotten permission from Leletha to use their version of dragonspeak in this fic (or to try and end up mangling it horribly) so it will be a little bit before I feel I've actually got a handle on it. There's none in this chapter, but as of next it factors in a lot more. 
> 
> I'm also super in need of concrit if you've got something to say. I'm still ironing out kinks in my storyplan, but if you've got something you think might help (even just typos) I want to hear it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward.”  
> ― E.E. Cummings

Everyone in your village knows to never, ever, touch a live dragon. If you touch a dragon when its alive, it marks you, and if you get marked, you get taken.

And everybody knows what happens if you get taken.

You've never seen it properly, stuck in the forge sharpening and repairing and not making a nuisance of yourself during attacks, but you hear the whispers afterwards, clear as day. And the screams, of course.

The marked are dragged off by the dragon that marked them, and when you see them again during raids ( _if_ you see them, you remind yourself, sometimes they never come back) they're more like shells, tearing into houses and fences and other Vikings like it's all the same, like they never belonged.

“So why didn't you?” You look at the Night Fury you downed a few nights ago, in its cove and trying desperately to not be. You set down your pencil and tug off your gloves, rubbing your hands and breathing into them to get them warm enough to sketch, and watch in horror as your pencil rolls off the rock you're hiding behind/using as a table.

Right through the Night Fury's field of vision.

You make eye contact, but not willingly.

In a sudden fervor, the dragon leaps up to your rock and sniffs around you, ripped-off-tailfin smacking you in the head as it scents you. Seemingly sated, it retreats to the safety of its cove, where it curls up in the most-protected area and seems to fall asleep.

You decide you don't actually need a pencil, and run home.

***

It's been three days. Any fish that might have been in that pond surely must have been eaten by now.

The poor thing's probably starving.

So after practice in the two weeks' transition, you don your outside gear, grab a fish out of a newly-returned trawling boat, and make your way down to the Night Fury's cove.

Every instinct you have is screaming at you not to go close, to throw the fish and run away as fast as you can while it's distracted, but unfortunately your instincts forgot you're Hiccup the Useless, with barely any arm strength to speak of, and the fish lands not five feet from your way into the cove. And of course, being you, you just _have_ to make sure the fish gets to the dragon you downed, so you leave the shield stuck between two rocks and venture forward, fish in hand.

The dragon doesn't appear to be here.

You sigh and sit down, fish still in hand.

You feel the distinct sensation of being watched. You reason it's the birds perched in the trees, the ones not smart enough to go South for the winter.

“You know, you might as well just mark and take me now. Nobody would even notice.” You declare to the cove at large.

You have to hold in a scream when all of a sudden the Night Fury is right in front of you, eyeing the fish in your lap.

“Want it?” You offer, reaching it out to the dragon. “It's for you.”

The dragon hisses at the dagger you brought, the hilt just barely visible under your winter coat. Your hand goes to it unthinkingly, and the growling only gets louder. You very carefully pull it out from your waistband and toss it behind you with a _plink._

(Straight into the water. Great.)

But the dragon calms down immediately, perking up and focusing on the fish.

“I brought it for you, you know,” You shake the fish slightly, holding it out again. This time, the dragon reaches forward from the neck, and the thought that _huh, I thought it had teeth_ barely has time to cross your mind before the fish is snatched from your grasp and swallowed in one swoop.

This time you actually scream. (But only for a second, and at least now you know the teeth retract.)

And then you're being chased back, presumably for more fish, right up against a rock where you're defenseless and it could kill or mark you easily. With half a regurgitated fish in your lap, which is definitely not how you were expecting this to go.

When the dragon sits back on its haunches, you take a moment to breathe. Through your mouth, because that fish just _reeks_.

 _Well?_ The dragon seems to say.  _What are you waiting for?_ _  
_

And with increasing horror, you realize that you're expected to eat it.

The one bite you take you barely stomach, and when you smile at the dragon to say _thank you, but that's all I'm going to eat_ , it smiles back.

***

It takes nearly another week of feeding him fish before you can even get close. You think he knows that the contact does, that the second you touch you're doomed. It's more winter than summer now, and your absent doodling has spurred him into drawing his own design into the snow. There's not much right now, maybe three or four inches, enough to draw in, at least.

You're trying to back up to see what he drew, when suddenly he's right behind you. You jerk away, but you think you're safe from contact for now.

Except for his eyes, which look at you like they really, really, want to touch you.

Which you are absolutely certain is a bad idea. There is literally no doubt in your mind that there is no way this could end but badly. You clutch your hands to your chest, still gloved, and shake your head.

_No._

The dragon doesn't break eye contact. It's like he's asking permission.

(When did you start calling it a he?)

This is literally everything you've been warned against since the day you were born, the blasted creatures that with one innocent touch take the best of men from the fight, never again to be seen as they were. But at the same time, pretty much nobody's going to notice your absence, and in the course of a week this dragon has become a better friend to you than any Viking in that village did in 15 years.

You rip off your right-hand glove and put your hand out before you can regret it.

He gives you three seconds to change your mind, before searing pain screams its way up your arm and you collapse.


	2. Illusion Which Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not until you're about to clear the trees back into the village that you realize that feeling you had with Toothless curled around you was safety. 
> 
> For the first time in 15 years, you actually felt safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The straight line, a respectable optical illusion which ruins many a man.”   
> ― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
> 
> This is where it gets obvious I'm taking some liberties with canon here. I rearranged some events slightly (like the meal directly before New Tail happening some time in the vicinity of The Dragon Book and Focus, Hiccup!) and there is, of course, the universe alteration which gave this fic life.
> 
> One more thing: I tend to refer to events in the movie by what soundtrack piece was playing in the background, rather than any chapter title they may have in the DVD. Just in case anyone gets confused.

The first thing that comes to you when you come to is that you've almost certainly moved. You're somewhere dark and warm, when you were out in the bright, bright cold in the days before the sun stops shining.

The second thing is that your arm burns like nothing you've ever felt before.

The third thing is the gentle chanting of _sorry sorry love love love_ coming from all around you.

You jolt up with a start.

_You've been marked._

You are tangled up in a dragons limbs and wings and you need to _run before it takes you away_. But your arm is aching even though it's not your dominant one and the dragon—you might as well just name him at this point—has his wings curled around you in what you _think_ is a protective gesture.

“What?” you ask aloud.

 _Relief relief joy love love you fall worry worry worry danger hurt worry sorry sorry love love love_ washes over you like a wave but not made of water.

You don't know how you understand what it means, but you do. You have half a mind to run screaming back to the village and beg for help killing your dragon. But Gobber's words from a night or two ago float through your mind:

_A downed dragon is a dead dragon._

Your dragon is downed. He should have starved by now, if not for you bringing him fish every day after training. He should be dead.

 _So should you_ , you think bitterly. Born premature and without a mother too early and weak to be weaned, growing up weak and scrawny in a village plagued by dragons, there are so many things that should have killed you before now, but here you are.

Here both of you are.

“I don't want to die.” You say in the direction of what you think must be the head.

 _Shock horror worry worry love love love life love here love here here concern love protect love safe safe._ Your dragon opens one eye and nuzzles your cheek.

The movement dislodges one wing, and a well-placed sunbeam lights upon your hands. On your right, where you made contact with your dragon's snout, is a vaguely-triangular mark that could pass for a burn if you're careful.

You're suddenly very grateful that it's turning into winter, and everyone will be wearing gloves pretty near constantly.

Your dragon (when did he become _yours_?) sees where you're looking and butts his nose against it. (It doesn't hurt this time.) _You us we me holds-my-soul same same!_ He grins and licks your cheek.

How is he so calm?

_Worry love concern confusion love?_

You don't want to move. You're warm and comfortable and... something else that you can't really identify, but you need to run, you need to get back to the village before they notice something's wrong, before they find you here with this sometimes-toothless dragon—maybe you'll name the dragon Toothless—and kill you or him or both.

“I—” You choke out, pushing to free yourself. “Toothless, I have to go.”

He lets you go, and as you stumble away, groping for your gloves, he looks at you with the saddest eyes you've ever seen.

“I'm coming back,” You say defensively. “You know that, right?”

Toothless gets up, and gently starts nudging you towards your way into the cove. He's still got those mournful eyes, but now there's almost a glimmer of hope in them, too.

 _Go,_ he tells you, and you do.

It's not until you're about to clear the trees back into the village that you realize that feeling you had with Toothless curled around you was safety.

For the first time in 15 years, you actually felt _safe_.

***

You spend every spare moment you have over the next few days drawing furiously. By this point, everybody knows better than to ask to see whatever it is you're doing, but you're still extra secretive.

(If you have any decent length of time, you go to your cove and curl up with Toothless. The both of you revel in how you understand each other now, with Toothless giving input on the design and thinking of things you would have forgotten until the second prototype.)

All in all, it takes you nearly a week to finish the proto-prosthetic fin.

“Heeey, Toothless!” You call, dragging both the prosthetic and a basket of fish. “I brought breakfast, among other things.”

He bounds up to you, twisting around you and purring _hello yes yes love love here yes love not-real fly maybe love love today yes?_ even before going for the basket of fish.

“On the menu today, we have some salmon, a decent amount of cod, a whole smoked eel, and a cha—” You look up to see Toothless hissing at the eel.

_No no no bad bad yucky no no bad bad bad why no bad why?_

“I see you found the eel.” You deadpan, carefully dropping the prosthetic to the ground to toe at the dead chordate in question. “I'm not a big fan of them either, bud.” You tug it away from Toothless' breakfast.

He tosses one up in the air, shoots a short blast of flame at it, and when it comes down, offers it to you. He learned after about the third time you puked up your share of raw fish that it needed to be cooked for you, and since then has been sure to save you some and cook it. It's generally a little bit charbroiled, but he's thinking of you and as a general rule you miss mealtimes for this so you appreciate it all the same.

Curled up against what would be his shoulder-and-collarbone area and eating your share of fish has become a comforting ritual for the two of you, chatting about anything and everything. Toothless seems to have accepted that for the time being he's stuck here, and you seem to have accepted that you've been marked but you're still here.

“Do you miss it?” You ask between mouthfuls. “Your... your nest, I mean?”

 _Nest bad bad not safe She bad She not safe She bad bad bad want safe want want want safe go nest yes._ Toothless sighed, after a long pause.

“Not today,” you decide, moving to attach the prosthetic. “Today, we see if this works.”

By the way Toothless bounds up, he's inclined to agree.


	3. Baby Steps, Except In The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Astrid, it's okay, it's—” You see the horrified look on her face, and remember just where your mark sits. “It's too late, Astrid, I'm sorry.” You finish lamely, and let her run off.
> 
> Flying happens, among other things.

You're beginning to think this was a bad idea.

The two of you are three hundred feet up in the air, the prosthetic is almost working, but you _forgot to give yourself a way to hold on._

“How do we get down?” You yell over the wind. You shriek at a bounce over turbulent air you weren't expecting. Toothless gives a sound like a laugh, which you jab him in the stomach with your right heel (the one not attached to the prosthetic keeping you in the air, of course. You're angry, but you're not stupid.)

Toothless rolls his eyes and swoops out to sea. Which is most certainly not what “down” means, and you're pretty sure he knows this. You're also pretty sure he's doing this just to aggravate you, but it also might be the fact that he's been stuck on the ground for nearly three weeks, which would drive you crazy too.

“Toothless, I'm serious! We don't have a way down!” And it's getting close to sunrise, if you're out much longer you're going to get caught.

You were wrong: This was an absolutely terrible idea.

Instead of helping find a solution (or even offering some sort of “oh no, this is how we die”) Toothless pulls the two of you into a tight spiral up.

A tight spiral you weren't expecting. And which causes you to lose your grip on Toothless' neck, and start to fall.

You're not actually sure who the scream came from. You're only really aware that you're falling, and reaching out for your best friend, who's too far away and _can't fly either._

Oh gods, you're both going to die.

 _Worry worry no no no bad bad bad bad bad love love love sorry sorry worry bad no sorry love!_ Toothless screeches at you as you fall. You don't know what to say to that, and you don't know if your lungs are even working enough to get out an answer if you had one.

You've pretty much accepted the whole death thing, you think, because the falling is kind of like flying if you close your eyes.

Until your hand catches the rope that's flying around wildly as the two of you fall, and Toothless angles himself under you and catches you from underneath, wings out to catch any sort of updraft.

You are _never_ doing this again, you decide, yanking on the rope to try and get you to safety.

 

***

 

 _Love love good love love up scare fall bad love love?_ Toothless curls himself around you, prosthetic off and hidden.

You're still breathing heavily, your gloves pulled off the second you hit the ground.

“We are _never_ doing that again.” You tell him, curling into his side and letting his wing fall over you. All he does is coo at you sadly.

“At least, not without some way to keep me on.” You continue. “Because I think I get it, Toothless, the whole flying thing: It's amazing.”

Toothless' happy chirr and rush of _love love good fly love fly good love love fly_ is enough gratification for you any day.

“I'm thinking maybe a saddle, because they're easy enough to make, and that way we could put a pedal in the place of one of the stirrups.” You're just thinking out loud, now, but the encouragement and input from Toothless makes you think you should maybe think out loud more. You pull out your notebook, from the safe and dry little space you found a few visits ago, and find a stick that Toothless can char for you. You lay against him and sketch out a preliminary design, using his side for reference as he settles down for a nap. You're glad you got yourself up early to test out the prosthetic tailfin, because now you have time to integrate that, too.

Eventually you finalize a saddle design, and a harness for you so you don't fall. You grin, and go back to your village for the day.

 

***

 

By the end of the month you two have spent together, you're so linked you don't know how you got on before. The two of you are getting better at flying in sync, and part of you wishes you could run away forever, even though you know that's an even worse idea than bonding with Toothless was to begin with. (The codependency is kind of beginning to freak you out, if you're honest, but you don't know how to address it. You don't even know if dragons have a word for codependency.)

Dragon training remains a horrible idea, but so far you haven't actually had to try and kill anything, just use little tricks you picked up from Toothless.

“Afternoon, bud! Ready to fly?” You grin, walking down the now well-trodden path into the cove. Toothless bounds up to you, and you press your foreheads together in greeting before you sling off the basket of fish.

 _Hello holds-my-soul hello love love hello fish yes love love yes fish up fish love love?_ Toothless slobbers a greeting across your cheeks.

Your gloves are off to fasten on the saddle when you hear her.

“Get down!” Astrid yells, running forward with her axe.

_Love love hide please safe love hide please love love not safe hide!!_

“Astrid! Astrid no!” You dodge, getting in between her and Toothless and extending both hands placatingly. “Astrid, it's okay, it's—” You see the horrified look on her face, and remember just where your mark sits. “It's too late, Astrid, I'm sorry.” You finish lamely, and let her run off.

“Bud, we gotta go. Now. We can't come back.” The dread you're sure is on your face is echoed in his. “We'll take the fish, and my little dagger, and whatever's in my pockets, but this is it.”

You finish saddling your best friend up, and elect to leave your gloves on the ground. Hopefully you won't need them.

“Say goodbye to Berk, Toothless.” You mutter. “We won't be back.”

The two of you take off, in the direction of the nest. Toothless is getting more and more fidgety, the closer you two get, until the mist passes over you, you shudder through a barrier, and are both lost to the Green Death's control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No quote for this chapter.)
> 
> I'm trying to consistently keep about two chapters ahead on this fic, in case I need to go back and retcon something mentioned in passing. This one was weird to write, but we're finally out of the first movement!


	4. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of Hiccup and Toothless during their time in the nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in·ter·mez·zo (ˌin(t)ərˈmetsō/), noun: a short connecting instrumental movement in an opera or other musical work.
> 
> I've spent the last few days planning extensively, and I think I've settled on everything to the next pair of break chapters, after which I'm stuck. This one was originally a character building exercise that sort of grew out of control, and with some modification works great as a way to bridge the gap between leaving and coming back.
> 
> A couple things that are necessary to know but I couldn't fit into the chapter:  
> When the dragons under the Green Death are within her nest, she loosens the grip she holds over their minds, both to conserve her energy and because if they try to escape she can just eat them on their way out. She tightens her grip on them when they go out raiding, mostly to keep them from escaping.

The nest is cramped, clammy, and altogether uncomfortable. The other dragons ( _other dragons!_ ) gather around you, snuffling curiously, and you and Toothless growl out a warning in harmony. There are other Vikings ( _former_ Vikings, you remind yourself) here too, dead eyed and huddled against the dragons you presume must be theirs.

There's an awful howling from where the ledge drops off, and Toothless tries to draw you away from the edge with reassurances and _love love not safe She bad bad bad bad bad not safe not safe please please love here safe love love please_ , but you are still as much you as you can be, and crawl over to the edge to peek out into the smoky abyss.

You can't actually see anything, but the horrible stench and wave of a feeling like _existential dread_ are enough to send you reeling backwards, where Toothless catches you and draws you back further.

The _worry worry worry_ isn't quite enough to cover the smug hint of _told-you-so_ , and you smack him halfheartedly, even if you're quite glad he pulled you back from Her view.

***

The next thing you remember, you're back in the nest, arms and legs sore and clothes slightly singed. You assume you're back after a raid, from the way dragons are still pouring in, dropping offerings and flying out of reach as fast as they can.

 _Safe (ish) love love safe love_ Toothless nuzzles you, and you pat him distractedly, too entranced by the rush of dragons and the way the offerings never seem to hit anything in the chasm below.

Then, in a moment of silence, where one dragon tries to sneak by without bringing anything back, you understand why.

Out of the vaguely orange-tinted smoke comes the biggest dragon head you've ever seen, probably as big as your (former) village.

Not a single soul in the nest makes a sound as those jaws snap shut over one of their own.

One of Toothless' wings curls over you and pushes you to lie down, and you do, curling up at his side and tracing patterns in his scales.

“I'm sorry for making you come back to this.” You whisper. “I'm sorry for thinking we could fix this.”

You fall asleep to the cadence of _love love safe sleep love protect love love love forgive love love safe same love._

***

It's the first raid you'll remember when it's over, months into your—you don't know what to call it. It's not an escape, it wasn't really a trap, and it's too repetitive to be a real adventure. Slavery might be a good word for it.

It's a village on the outskirts of her control, one that isn't Berk but very well could be.

(Toothless feels it too, how much weaker she is out here, and how much more _alive_ you are.)

You're suddenly very scared.

 _Holds-my-soul? Love love fear warm love hurry love love?_ Toothless asks beneath you. You nod and release a breath slowly.

“Let's fly,” You lean down and whisper into the ear frills. “And let's bring back something good.”

As a unit, you fly between buildings, over screaming villagers' heads, grabbing things you think maybe might be useful (like summer clothes off a drying rack) and a sheep big enough to keep you alive.

You're the last in and the first out, as usual. All the other marked Vikings want to stay and _fight_ , but not you two. You were never a fighter, and why would you change now, with the speed to get away with it?

You circle the village once, twice, spiraling higher, before you take your leave. You have to go back, because not going back is worse.

 _Same same love love me we us,_ Toothless purrs at you, and you echo it back.

***

It's another nine months before it happens again.

Just far enough out to be individual, be conscious, be _Hiccup_ , but just far enough in to still have the Green Death's tug at your mind, luring you back whether you want to go or not.

Your borrowed ( _stolen_ ) clothing is too big, but too big means less worry about when they won't fit anymore, so it's okay. Your dagger has rusted and stained the rock back at the Nest from misuse, but you're very careful with Toothless' fake-tail and flying-with. (There used to be other words for them, but you're not sure they matter anymore.)

You're raiding another village that isn't Berk, but on a bigger island. There's another village on the other side, that the other dragons and their Vikings don't dare go near, but you are Reckless and unafraid and choose to go to the other village, where it will be much easier to find something good to bring back.

Also, to sneak into their forge and make some repairs to the pedal of the fake-tail. Your foot is very very close to being too big for it, which would ground both of you and is very much not a thing you want. You have half a mind to get rid of the harness, too, but in the moments when you're you out here on raids it makes you feel a little more secure, even if it doesn't fit as well as it did. The relative freedom remains a novelty, one you share with your best friend in happy chitters and loop-de-loops in the sky.

You're doing well in the smithy, quiet, fast, good work, with Toothless working the bellows so you can keep fixing. Nearly done, just doing a final dunk to cool it, then making sure it fits, when the blacksmith walks in.

“Andras, I told ye, go home—” The blacksmith yawns, stretching. “Yer not Andras.” He says dumbly.

Shit.

You were _so close_!

You grab the now-cooled pedal, nod to Toothless, and run.

***

Toothless has never been anything but kind to you, considering your human limitations, protecting you when necessary, even feeding you and preening at your hair.

So when you see him dragging the back of his neck against a stalagmite (or is it a stalactite? You've never been sure) you feel like you owe him, somehow.

“I got it, buddy, lemme get that,” you reach over him, dragging your grubby nails over where it seems to itch the most, and thank any gods that might be listening that your nails were always rather tough.

Toothless gives a happy pant, and twists around to help you reach where he wants you to scratch. It's lovely, this moment where words (or even the feelings-gestures-noises speaking of the dragons) aren't necessary.

Except, when your hands come away, you notice the thin, top layer of his scales is peeling away.

“Toothless, what's this?” you ask, gently tracing where the peeling portion connects to the rest of the scales.

 _Guilt guilt secret love love not-worry-not-worry love holds-my-soul love,_ he bats under your arm to press against your palm and purr.

“Why, though?” You ask, scratching all the good places along his jaw.

 _Hunger hunger no fish sorry sorry love love love_ he tells you, and doesn't even try to make eye contact.

“No, no, _I'm_ sorry,” you mumble, hands still stroking and feeling and reassuring. “I should have noticed before now, sorry sorry.”

And that's how you end up sneaking out the first time, not straying far from the nest, but getting Toothless as many fish as you can eat, both muttering apologies as an undertone.

(Later sneakings-out for fresh air earn you the together-name Reckless, which replaces the weird half-names combination the other dragons had been using for the pair of you. The name grows on you, the same way the togetherness the naming implies does.)

***

Her reach extends farther now.

You both know this as fact, but it shocks you every time.

You _really, really_ don't like it.

So you fly to the edges of her reach, where you more free than you've been in three years, whooping with delight over open ocean and your best friend.

“Another try?” you ask, patting Toothless' neck. He grumbles a stream of _worry worry bad danger stupid love love regret bad danger_ and then finally a sigh of _consent_ that makes you grin widely.

“Low to the water,” you encourage, gently leading the both of you down before locking the fake tail in place and moving your feet out of the pedal-and-stirrup combination.

“Ready?” You grin to him, and you can feel the anxiety over the last few times in the clench of his neck, but he gives you the nod.

So you pull your feet up under you until you're kneeling in the saddle, take a stabilizing breath, and get to your feet.

You keep low, feet spread and hands ready to grab back on, but you're finally doing it. It might be just some dumb party trick, but _you're standing on your dragon_ and this is the _coolest_ thing you've _ever_ done.

“We're doing it, Toothless!” You cry out, delighted. Toothless doesn't look back, but you can feel him humming _joy joy fly love me we you us love love_ through the soles of your feet.

You uncrouch slightly, raising your arms to feel the wind. You haven't felt this alive in a very long time.

Separate, you are Markpaw and Halftail (or Hiccup and Toothless, in your head only but every bit as real as your names here), but together you are invincible. Together is how you fly, how you hunt, and may as well be how you breathe, in perfect sync and always aware of each other, like an extension of yourself. The other dragons lay close to you with their abducted bondees, but you are what the bond is meant to be: the kind of sameness that takes a lifetime to find. You have names separate from each other, sure, but nobody in the flock has called you anything other than Reckless, your name as a pair, in a very long time. You're invincible together, and invincibility would make anyone willing to take some risks.

You whoop with delight as you stand up fully, Toothless blowing a fire ring for you to fly through.


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He's gone!” Astrid ran into the centre of the village, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Hiccup's been _marked_!”
> 
> Nobody believed you, of course. The star of Dragon Training? Marked and taken? Surely not!
> 
> It's not until the next day, when Astrid managed to get Stoick to follow her to the cove, where Hiccup's gloves lay in the snow, that people started to believe her.
> 
> Second of two timeskip chapters, this time focusing on those left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, okay, sorry this took ages. I wrote chapters six and seven, then decided they were terrible/not necessary/out of character, and so rewrote them, and because of my finish-two-chapters-first policy I didn't want to post it until now.
> 
> This and Intermezzo were originally one chapter, then I split it because A) It was MASSIVELY long, B) Both parts needed to be longer, and C) It gives me the excuse to make the great comparison of the split between Hiccup and his village.
> 
> Also: If you read the first four chapters before 4/19 (if I recall the correct date) I'd reccomend going back to revisit them. I went back and made some changes to them. Nothing too big, I just had a great idea that fit but needed some retconning to make work.

Every single time, Astrid thinks the raids can't possibly get any worse.

Every single time, the raids find some way to get worse.

It's like some kind of cruel joke: the raid that leaves your village shattered, scrambling to make repairs, and Astrid always thinks that this time, they'll be ready. This time they'll do better. This time, they'll fight harder, fight faster, fight better, and maybe this time they won't get hit as hard.

The universe seems to think this is funny.

Some three year long joke that it can just keep going, because the army of dragons just _never seems to end._

Astrid knows this war is going to end some time soon, and she is determined to not be on the losing end of it.

***

“He's gone!” Astrid ran into the centre of the village, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Hiccup's been _marked_!”

Nobody believed you, of course. The star of Dragon Training? Marked and taken? Surely not!

It's not until the next day, when Astrid managed to get Stoick to follow her to the cove, where Hiccup's gloves lay in the snow, that people started to believe her. After all, it was easy to believe that Hiccup the _Useless_ would be marked and taken, in fact it was more surprising that it hadn't happened _earlier_.

Chief Stoick never wanted to believe it. Nobody's sure he's ever come to terms with it, except for on the battlefield.

On the battlefield, everything is so much simpler, reduced down to kill-or-be-killed, stark black and white of winning and losing. Astrid revels in it.

It means she can forget the look in the dragon-that-took-Hiccup-away's eyes, if only for a short time.

***

Without Hiccup, Star-Of-Dragon-Training around to claim his prize, it goes to the runner up by default. Astrid almost doesn't accept merely on principle: Does she really deserve to kill the Monstrous Nightmare if the honour went to her by _default_?

They put her class in the ring again the next day, and Astrid pretty much shatters any competition she may have had (along with the Nadder they pitted the class against's wingbones.)

She's told she deserves it, this great honour, that she's earned it many times over. She's not entirely sure she believes them.

She goes into the ring anyway, to fight this dragon, and as much as she wants to see pure animalistic hatred in those eyes, she can't help but see fear there too.

They circle each other, a girl and her axe and a Monstrous Nightmare that for some reason hasn't lit itself on fire yet. The crowd is hushed, waiting for the first move.

The dragon trips on a spare shield, lights itself on fire in what you assume is a reflex move, and the battle is on.

It's a good fight, if you ask Astrid. She gets lots of showoffy moments, it's a good challenge, and she even gets a cool scar out of a mistimed somersault.

She sees her opportunity, goes for it, and with one good swing of her axe, the light in its eyes and throat dies out.

(She wonders if, had things gone differently, those eyes could have shone with fierce protectiveness, with trust, with worry or caring or satisfaction or joy or—she really needs to stop this train of thought, she thinks. This isn't going to help her.)

***

It's been about three years, and Gobber hasn't cleaned away the boy's things.

Looked through them, sure. The incriminating evidence didn't even require much digging to find, even. Plans for a prosthetic tailfin, sitting right out in the open.

Gobber doesn't take on another apprentice. Hiccup may have been the scrawniest kid to ever try and lay claim to the title of Viking, but he was a hard worker in the forge, and with an eye for detail that many craftsmen would kill for, Gobber included. How could anyone ever measure up to that?

(Very easily, something tells him, but Gobber chooses to ignore it.)

Every so often, usually after a raid, Gobber will stand just inside the curtained off entrance to the boy's workspace, and ask himself what the chief's boy who cared enough about the dragon that would kill him that he gave it back its flight would do.

***

Repairing the village after a raid is Astrid's least favourite job. It's boring, to be frank. Just the same motions over and over, then twenty feet to the left you repeat it all over again.

The people she's stuck with don't make it any more appealing, either.

Right this second, Ruffnut and Tuffnut are using broken wood boards as makeshift swords, and play dueling in the middle of the construction zone, Snotlout is at the healer's after hurting himself trying to impress her, and Fishlegs is babbling on about every kind of dragon known to Vikingkind, as per usual.

The only thing keeping Astrid here, _trying_ to do what she can, is that this house belongs to a new family, and their newborn might not be strong enough to survive the cold yet. So she and another Viking heave up another piece of wood to support the roof, and Astrid tries to focus on the relief and gratitude that she's felt every time the village has done this for her family.

***

“Astrid, might we speak?” Stoick places a meaty hand on her shoulder, but Astrid doesn't flinch. “I have something important to ask of you.”

“Sure, is here okay?” Astrid gestures around the mostly-empty Great Hall.

Stoick the Vast, Chief of the Hooligan tribe, shrugs slightly and sits down across from her. Astrid tries her best to keep from being intimidated. (Usually, it works, but apparently not this time.)

“As I'm sure you've noticed, Astrid,” Stoick starts, and she takes a bite of the meat she was in here to eat for her evening meal. “I haven't yet named a successor as chief. Well, there's a reason for that, and if you'll forgive my unorthodoxy...”

Astrid takes another bite and makes a get-on-with-it gesture.

“I'd like to name you as my successor, Astrid.”

Her jaw (and the mouthful of meat contained within) drops.

“I'd—” Astrid coughs once, then straightens in her seat. “I'd be honoured, Chief.”

She ignores the bitter wondering of who he asked first that declined.

***

Astrid was aware that becoming the heir to the chiefdom of Berk was going to mean a lot of responsibility and even more work.

However, not even she could have predicted precisely this much.

“A chief takes care of their people,” Stoick reminds her daily. And every day, sunup to sundown, he's working her to the bone: helping with house repairs, learning some blacksmithing, getting Sven's black sheep out from the well, childminding, overseeing incoming fishing ships, and more. (She's no longer sure how there could _possibly_ be more.)

“A little higher?” calls up the overseer of the house to the roof she and Stoick are currently thatching. “Doesn't quite look solid enough for the snowfall.” By this point, Astrid knows better than to say anything, or even roll her eyes, and she overlaps the thatching until the overseer deems it satisfactory.

“Stoick?” she asked quietly, under the rustling cover of laying thatch and pushing in spars. “About the last raid—”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Stoick doesn't even look up.

“I'm sure you saw, but—”

“Astrid, I _don't want to talk about it._ ” Stoick repeats, but this isn't something Astrid can just let go.

“Hiccup is alive.” She states, and holds up a hand to stop Stoick from interrupting. “But Hiccup is now one of the enemy. I know you don't have an issue with killing taken Vikings, but I think that's a policy worth changing, on the off chance there's something we can do to reverse it.”

Stoick opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“A chief takes care of their people, and even if they're being controlled, those Vikings are still our people, right?” Astrid lays down another layer of thatch, and starts the process of lining it up with the layer below.

Neither of you have to say that this is about not wanting to kill Hiccup.

***

The chief is, by no means, a small man. He is, after all, called Stoick the Vast.

But suddenly, without his boy, the house seems much too big for him.

(He can practically see Valka and Hiccup talking over the counter, his boy sketching absentmindedly.)

Stoick elects to not touch anything of Hiccup's until it becomes sentient. Knowing teenaged boys, this is a likely possibility.

And so he fights harder than ever in the raids. Beating them back, saving his village with every swing and inhuman scream.

He's lost two loved ones to these monsters, and he's determined not to lose any more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to yell about dragons or platonic soulmates or pretty much anything, hit me up on my [tumblr](http://madgirlwithatown.tumblr.com)! I have a specific tag running for me yelling about this fic [(fic: everything we know)](http://madgirlwithatown.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:-everything-we-know) as well!


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